


Enough

by CarolinaCasanova



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Bouncer Bucky Barnes, Drunk Steve Rogers, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Sweet Bucky Barnes, They both need a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolinaCasanova/pseuds/CarolinaCasanova
Summary: Bucky is the bouncer at a rowdy corner bar in Brooklyn. One cold night, his boss orders him to kick out a little guy. Easy peasy, right?Wrong.Bucky has a soft spot.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ну, будет тебе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15640068) by [fandom_Evanstan_and_Co_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Evanstan_and_Co_2018/pseuds/fandom_Evanstan_and_Co_2018), [Zamykaet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zamykaet/pseuds/Zamykaet)



...

There was a clatter and a crash and another table turned to splinters. An elbow in his gut and a skull against his fist. A shimmery blade and a snap and, _"Shit!"_ as the knife got chucked into the street. A group of army brats, brawling and slurring and otherwise raising cain.

Six ways to Sunday, Bucky Barnes bounced them into next week.

"And stay out!" he shouted, clapping, as the guys crawled their ways home.

He inhaled, took a whiff of rotten fish and burnt rubber through the frosty air, then barreled back into the amber-lit bar. An ex-speakeasy on a cove by Dead Horse Bay, didn't have a name, just a reputation as _a lady-free clubhouse for sailors to eat, drink, and gamble._

And while the Boss Man was busy, Bucky beelined, slunk out the back door and found a seat on a stack of crates awaiting the dump. Took a Lucky Strike from his shirt pocket, got a dash of sulfur on his thumbprint. Shuddered, damn it. Guilt was a lonely place.

He puffed, watching the smoke strangle beams of a buzzing lamppost, then wane into the horizon. Silhouettes of the shipping port, with lights speckling the choppy water, full of piers and docks and boats. 

He tapped the ashes off the end, but was beckoned inside before he could smoke it to a nub. So he tossed the cigarette into a perennial puddle, straightened his tie, squared his shoulders, and reported to duty: to exile the next hellion.

And on the dot, pot-bellied Mr. Pierce swarmed him. "I'm done scraping scrub guts off my bartops," he grouched, gesturing to a measly man in a baggy coat and a mop of greasy blond fringe. Head low and glass lower and Bucky had checked that little guy at the door. Couple hours back, it seemed, although he'd kept his eye on him since. He was paid to keep his eyes on everything, paid to keep the peace, and that little guy looked like an easy target for alcohol poisoning and alcoholic knuckles alike. Something you'd find on a schoolyard, not a barstool in this part of town.

"Him?" came Bucky's curt reply. He'd never been ordered to bounce such a pipsqueak.

"You deaf, boy?" was all Mr. Pierce had to say before waddling off to the parlor.

Bucky tsked, first at his boss' back, then at the back of that scrawny fella swaying on a barstool. Unrolling his sleeves, he sauntered toward the little guy and sighed, "Hey buddy, you've had enough. Time to call it a night, don't ya think?"

The little guy looked up, glaring, twitching. His veins were obviously pumping rotgut. "No, I _don_ ' think" he spat, turning toward the bouncer, jabbing a finger into his chest. "I'm not causin' any trouble, so why the hell should I have to leave, huh?"

Bucky closed his eyes so he could roll them without being blatantly rude. Nights were always long when every customer gave him extra grief. "Owner's orders, alright? I don't make the rules. Just enforce 'em." He exhaled as he seized the man's skinny hand and carefully pushed it away from his chest. Chuckled a bit to himself, that such a tiny guy could be spoiling for such a fight. "Look, fella. I can flag you a cab if you'd like. That's all I can do. But you've gotta go."

The little guy scowled. "Screw you, buddy," he hissed, pushing to his feet. He wobbled a bit, took a step back and raised both fists. "I don' hav'ta do anythin', and I'd like to see you try an' make me."

"Good Lord." It wasn't every night Bucky got challenged by a guy half his size. "Calm down, just put 'em down," he said, reaching out to lower the puny dukes. "Come on, I'll walk you out." He nodded toward the door. The place was bustling. It'd be a shame to cause a scene, for the little guy's sake.

"What, you scared to fight me?" got snapped. "I'm tougher than I look, y'know."

Bucky couldn't help but cough a laugh at that goad. "I ain't scared," he leveled -- he still had his prestige and machoism to protect, after all. "But you're gonna get yourself hurt someday, pullin' stunts like this."

"So what?" The little guy lunged and swung with his right arm. His aim wasn't perfect -- he was probably seeing something close to triple.

"Whoa, buddy," Bucky said, grabbing the little guy's shoulders to keep him from toppling to the sticky floor. "No need to get testy, now. Let's just step outside a sec."

"I don' wanna step outside, pal!" got barked. "I wanna sit down and get another drink. Why don' you just leave me alone and mind your own damn business?" He jerked free of the grip, stumbling back into the bar.

"Hey!" Bucky hollered, trailing the guy. "This _is_ my business," he informed him, signaling to the bartender not to pour their tough customer another drop. "It's my job, you can understand that, can't you?" His voice dropped as he propped himself against the counter. "It's for your own good, too."

"You don' know what's good for me," the little guy said. "You don' know me at all. What'll be good for me right now is another drink. An' I don' really care if it's your job. I was just sittin' here, mindin' my own damn business, before you came to bug me for no good reason."

"Look." Bucky scratched his neck. That was true. He didn't know the guy, hadn't seen him before this evening. People don't forget eyes as electric as the pair that were giving him the death stare. "If you wanna speak with the owner, I can fetch him. But it'd be easier if you'd just listen to me. You can always come back tomorrow, as it stands now. But the owner, well. He's been known to ban folks. Permanent." Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "So, punk, what's it gonna be?"

The little guy just glared for a moment, clenching his teeth so hard Bucky thought he heard one crack. "Fuck you, buddy," he finally grunted, shoving past the bouncer and through the crowd toward the exit.

"Hey, hold up, pal!" It was bonkers; chasing after a sour customer, but, "Let me flag you a cab," Bucky said, catching the steel-framed door from slamming in his face.

The little guy tugged on his too-thin coat as he tottered out onto the sidewalk. "No thanks," he said. "I don' need your help." He stood still for a moment, orienting himself, then swiveled in the direction of Gravesend.

Bucky glanced up at the moonless sky. "Come on," he pleaded, trotting after the stranger. "It'll just take a minute." Between the bottom shelf swill the little guy had been guzzling, and the threadbare coat that was swallowing his gaunt frame, Bucky put two and two together. "I'll cover it, okay? It's cold out here, and you can hardly walk straight. You'll get cuffed for public drunkenness."

"Fine," the little guy said. "Good. They can cuff me, then."

"Buddy." Bucky planted a hand on the guy's bony shoulder. "Just, sit down a sec." He maneuvered them toward a bench. "Say, will you wait for me if I run back inside?"

The little guy grumbled up a storm. Then, "Sure," got huffed, as he leaned back. "Whatever."

"Kippy. Be back in a jiffy." Bucky gave a scout's honor before dashing to the bar. Whoosh of clammy air and cackling hooligans and once inside, he was quick, snatching a flask from below the counter, then his coat from the rack on his vamoose.

And sure enough, there was still a lump on the bench, slumped like a sack of small potatoes.

"Here," said Bucky, dropping his coat into the stranger's lap. He flashed the whiskey up his sleeve. "Got this, too."

The little guy wrinkled his beak, frowning down at the canvas and wool. "I don' need your coat," he said. "I don' -- I don' need your charity, okay? I don' need you to _pity_ me. You don' even know me, so why don' y'just leave me the hell alone, alright?"

Bucky cocked his head. "It ain't charity, alright? It's just -- the least I can do for spoiling your night back there." He jutted a thumb behind them. "Listen, I'm probably getting fired tomorrow, nicking booze and bailing on the clock like this. So ain't the least you can do is _take_ the booze, so I'm not losing work over nothing?" He hated guilt-tripping, but the stranger seemed to hate sympathy even more. And Bucky wanted him to take the damn nightcap.

The little guy lifted his head just enough to glare at the bouncer. "I didn' ask you to do all that," he said. "Go back to your job. Whatever you think you're doin', I don' need it, and it's not worth gettin' fired over." He forced himself to his feet, his legs a bit shaky, and shoved the coat into its owner's chest.

"I know you didn't ask, I didn't mean --" Bucky stood defeated, staring at his shoes. Sometimes they felt too big. Sometimes he felt blisters he couldn't see. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm." He sighed, reluctantly taking his coat. Bucky knew when to walk away from a fight. "Guess you really are tougher than you look, huh?" He gave the stranger a shy smile. "Just, take care of yourself, yeah?" He reached to pat the little guy's shoulder but stopped himself, letting his arm fall limply at his side as he turned to walk away.

But the door handle felt wrong in his hand, so he let it go. The bar suddenly wasn't worth returning to. He looked back -- he'd sworn he wouldn't -- just to squint through the dark.

And about a block down, below a dim street-light, something crumpled to the sidewalk at the mouth of an alleyway. The little stranger's grungy coat was a chore to spot through the night, but his pale hair sure wasn't. And like that, Bucky was gone, backpedaling, making tracks faster than he had in ages.

But he halted his sprint as he closed in around the stranger. Cautious not to spook him, he stooped low, beside the little guy, whose limbs looked like sticks just sprawled amidst the litter and autumn leaves there. Bucky swore he saw bruises forming over the rags.

"Hey," he cleared his throat. "Hey, it's -- I know you're not thrilled, but I'm here to help ya up, if you want. I'm the bouncer, from the bar."

"I can see who you are," got mumbled. "M'drunk, not stupid." The little guy made no effort to move, even though the pavement was cold and hard and a breeding ground for broken bottles. "What're you doin'? I told you to go back to work. Aren' y'gonna get fired, or somethin'...?"

Bucky chuckled, despite himself. "Down an' out and still a spitfire." He sat back on his heels and sighed. "You're funny, ya know? You didn't give a damn about my job a few minutes ago when I was trying to do it. But now," he grinned, fiddling with a stray bottle cap. "You can't quit worrying about it. Now why is that?"

"You weren't gonna lose your job o'er me fightin' you," got muttered. "But you could lose your job for helpin' me. And just because I didn' wanna get thrown out, doesn' mean you're a bad guy. So I don' want you to lose your job." The little guy rolled onto his side and groaned as he pushed himself into a seated position.

"No, but I might'a lost a few teeth, huh?" Bucky smirked. "You really did pack a punch," he admitted. "Though, your aim could use a little work." He sunk lower into the cement, across from the stranger, whose blue eyes were still ablaze, despite the spirit that seemed to be draining from every other inch of his little body. "I'll worry about my job tomorrow. You're what's in front of me right now, and I _would_ be bad a guy if I just left ya here like trash," he said, skipping the bottle cap down the alley. "Say, did you leave that good stuff on the bench?"

The little guy blinked. "Oh. Yeah. Probably did, just wanted to get home, I guess. Didn' make it very far."

Bucky waved his hand, dissing the whiskey. "No biggie. You probably made a vagabond's night," he jested, then frowned a bit. "So, you gonna let me flag you a cab yet? Or you gonna make me walk you home?"

"I can't afford a cab. An' I'm not lettin' you pay for one." The little guy started to stand, moving slowly so he wouldn't fall a second time. "If you wanna follow me home like some kinda creep, that's your choice. But I can make it on my own."

"Creep it is, then." Bucky pushed himself to his feet, holding out an arm, nonchalant. Just in case the stranger needed to grasp something for balance, but he only sneered and folded his own. "Well --" Bucky swung that arm ahead. "-- Lead the way, buddy."

"My name's Steve," he huffed. "So you can quit callin' me buddy." And with that, they started down the street.

"Ah, well nice to meet you, Steve," Bucky grinned, sticking out his hand. He'd been raised with manners, even if he chose to wield them wryly. "I'm Bucky. Not that you're gonna call me anything other than a creep."

Steve scoffed, Bucky saw it cloud up the air. He also saw Steve quiver as they walked.

"Offer still stands for the coat, by the way. I'm not using it, so it'd only lighten my load if you did."

"I don' need your stupid coat."

"Suit yourself," Bucky mumbled, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

"Why are you even bein' so nice to me? I tried to fight you."

"You smoke?" Bucky asked, lighting a match on his nail. "I'm not being nice," he clarified, then took a shallow drag. "I'm probably being a bother more than anything. Besides, God knows you're not the first drunkard who's taken a swing at me."

"Am I the first customer you've taken under your wing?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't have wings."

"An' I don' smoke," Steve answered, turning down the next street, lined with bleak and boarded townhomes. "Cigarettes irritate my asthma." Well. The Lucky Strike got dropped and stomped. And _well_. Steve wrinkled his forehead the same way he'd wrinkled his beak. "You didn' have to do that," he said. "But, thanks. I guess."

Bucky shook his head and swiped his hand through the breeze. "I should probably cut back anyhow. Suckers ain't cheap."

A spurt of silence hung between them as they ambled down the sidewalk, passing quiet alleys full of trash and sleeping, shivering figures.

"Oh, you live down here?" Bucky asked out of nowhere.

"Yeah, I live down here. You got somethin' t'say about it?"

"Yeah, I do." As they passed a tremoring mound of garbage bags, Bucky paused to drape his coat over an old man, then returned to Steve's side. "You know a kid named Ricky Barnes?"

"Uh, yeah? I think he lives a couple buildings down," Steve said, shrugged. "I dunno. I don' get out as often as I should. An' I was pretty busy with school, 'til just recently."

"Well, Ricky's my cousin. I used to come down here after school and read comic books at his place." Bucky scrubbed his palms together. "So, you just graduated, then?"

Steve sighed. "No, I didn' graduate. I dropped out a few months ago."

"Ah. I did that too. Except, not a few months ago. A few years, or so." High school was free, but life was not. And before Bucky had learned to drive, he was ready to take on the world with nothing but a bag on his back and six stitches in his forehead. "Money doesn't grown in textbooks, you know?" He tucked his hands into his armpits.

"Yeah, believe me, I know." Steve turned another corner. "So, y'just found a job as a bouncer, instead?"

"Nah, worked at the docks first. Had to be eighteen before that bar would take me," Bucky explained. But he kept to himself how good it had felt, the day he'd landed that bouncing gig. How he finally felt like he was dishing out vengeance, veiled as justice, even though his father never drank in public. "How about you? You work anywhere?"

"I do whatever work people will gimme," Steve mumbled. "Which isn' much."

"Yeah, pickings are pretty slim at the job market." But Bucky knew he had no idea. He saw where he was, where Steve lived. Bucky wasn't rich by any means, but he had always been strong enough to scrape by. "So," he needed to veer their chat from finances before it turned volatile again. "You live with your family, or roommates, or what?"

Steve tensed, hunching further into his coat and dragging his feet along the pavement. His building was just a couple more blocks away, thank God, because he didn't know how much longer he could keep putting one foot in front of the other.

"No," he said, his voice a rasp. "I live alone. I lived with my ma 'til she passed last week."

Bucky felt like he'd been hit by the burliest of customers. A twinge of nausea rippled through him, so he gulped, just to be safe. "Oh," he said, quietly. "I -- I'm so sorry, Steve. That was a thoughtless thing'a me to ask." He wrestled with the urge to stop the little guy there on the street, look him in the eye and offer sincere condolences. But Steve's stride didn't break, so neither did Bucky's.

"Wasn' thoughtless, t'was normal," Steve bickered, drawing nearer to his building. "There's no way you could'a known without me tellin' ya."

"Yeah, but. I should'a known better, I mean, you just never know circumstances, and..." Bucky trailed off and frowned at Steve, who was frowning straight ahead. "What's your story, morning glory?"

Steve heaved a sigh. "It's none'uh your business, but -- " The lamp was out, the one he always left on. He couldn't see it through the window. "I think my electricity's gone." From his tip-toes, yeah, he could see lights in the apartment above his. Of course it wasn't a problem with the complex -- it was just Steve.

And if it weren't for musky seaside gutters, Bucky would have smelled the shame exuding from the little guy. "It's freezing tonight," he announced the obvious, like a fool. "You gonna be okay?" But he knew the answer to that, so he tried again. "You got a fireplace? 'Cause I can help ya get one going."

Steve shook his head. "Only gotta boiler." He fumbled through his pockets. Then frisked his shirt. Then clasped his hands behind his head, and deflated.

"Can't find your key?"

"Must'a lost it when I fell."

Bucky stepped closer, flicking his eyes about before asking, "Got one hidden somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Well," Steve mumbled, stomping toward his building. "I think so. We used to."

Bucky hung back, waited for Steve to start flipping over flower pots and bristle mats, until he realized that there weren't any. Weren't even any rocks around, only mushy cardboard and busted glass, some from bottles, most from windows. Steve was standing by a door now, on a stoop, still fishing for a key that wasn't there.

Bucky caught up to him. "I can try'ta pick it, if you want."

"You --" Steve's features did somersaults. "You realize, you're invitin' yourself to break into a stranger's home? Y'do this often?"

"First time's a charm." Bucky winked. There wasn't exactly a protest, so he squatted to get a better shot at jimmying the lock.

"S'not how it goes," Steve declared, leaning sideways into a chipped brick wall. His bed was on the other side, maybe a foot away, but he was ready to fall asleep right where he was. "It's _third_ time."

"Well, that works, too." Bucky craned his neck, shut an eye, and peeped into the key hole. "One: coat." He scouted out the ground around him. He needed a paperclip. "Two: cab." He hadn't done this before without a paperclip. "Three: door."

"No." Steve was pretty close to tapping his foot. "It was cab, coat, booze," he corrected, reciting the bouncer's failed attempts at assistance. Kicked a scrap of plastic, just because it was there, then continued. "Helpin' me up, startin' a fire. Door."

Which, Bucky had resorted to jiggling the knob of. Like rubbing a lamp, in hopes of stirring up some magic, maybe. "You know, it's a sad day when a sober man's memory is worse than a drunk's. But," he said, remembering the toothpick he'd saved from lunch. "That'll work just fine. Because seven --" he bit his tongue in concentration as he poked the wooden point into the key hole. "-- is luckier than three."

Steve scoffed. "I only listed," he counted on his fingers, just to double check. Bucky cursed. Steve scoffed again. "Six things."

"So _far._ " So, locksmithing wasn't Bucky's long suit, not by a stretch. His toothpick snapped inside the knob, but that brass got banged again anyway. Alas, there was some grunting, standing, brushing off knees and slapping on apologetic grins. Steve just looked away. "Listen," he sighed, because number seven was coming. "I've got a couch."

Well. That got those thousand-watt eyes to boomerang back to Bucky.

"No," got spat.

"You got a better idea?"

"I'll figure one out."

"Whaddya got to lose?" Bucky asked, like velvet. Steve wrung his skinny fingers, in a blend of jitters and kindling. "Besides some digits, huh?" he smirked, then snapped back to sincerity. "You know, you've got nothing to prove here."

"An' neither do you," Steve snarled, still propped against the exterior of his home, against the room his mother had died in. "So don' look down on me."

"I don't."

"Then what's all this t'you?"

"I don't know."

"Well." Steve ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. "You know I don' need your damn charity."

"It's not charity, it's --" Bucky caved. _Why couldn't the little guy see?_ "-- It's common sense!"

"Look, pal!" Steve jutted his chin and locked his eyes with the bouncer's before him. His vision lagged a little, but, "Whatever you wanna call it, the bottom line's the same: I don' know you, you don' know me, so --"

"I don't care," Bucky said, and he sounded as pathetic as Steve looked and Steve couldn't stand to hear it.

So he began his march to no where in particular, just away from his home, away from the bouncer. "I dunno what to say t'you," he croaked into the dark. Far away from everything. 

Bucky plowed his hands through his hair, watching the the little guy dwindle past a dumpster, through a gap in a chain-link fence. Into a cluster of twiggy bushes. The street was intoxicatingly quiet for a moment, then another. Then, in some shadows a few yards away, a scraggly cat scattered into some cans. Bucky flinched, and every fiber of his being tugged him toward Steve, so he followed. He didn't want to rip.

A creamy light weltered over a few shapes through the slates and navies around; so the moon had risen, after all.

And barely a minute later, Bucky was crossing paths with the little guy again. Except for this time, the fella had his head in his hands, knees to his chest. Crouched behind a sofa with rusty metal coils where cushions should have been.

"Steve?"

Steve wasn't hiding, he was invisible enough as it was. His whole life, he'd only mattered to his mother and the bullies who liked to spend his lunch money on bubblegum and baseball cards, but even they had forsaken him. So why couldn't the bouncer-brat do the same?

Steve sniffled, and that was his mistake. And his miracle, maybe.

"Hey --" But Bucky didn't get to finish. He didn't even get to join Steve on the ground before,

"Goddamn it!" went whirling through the stone cold air. "I'm fine. I'll be fine." He sniffled again because why the hell not? He'd already blown everything, already shown his every weakness. "Just go." He swatted before the good samaritan could come any closer. " _Go!_ "

Bucky stopped, shifted his stance, spun around. He knew when to walk away from a fight, so why the hell couldn't he? He should have gotten lost, gone home. But all he could do was grab his hair again and growl, "I'm _trying_ to!"

Steve's mind was spinning, but the alcohol could not be blamed at that point. Still, he shuffled to his feet and faced the man with the ebon hair and gunmetal eyes. "I can't believe this," was the truest thing either of them had said all night.

Two strangers, standing in the ramshackles of a basketball court. Overgrown and unfamiliar. A stranger with folded arms, another scratching at the back of his neck. They looked shipwrecked. One couldn't escape that reality, the frost bite, the darkness, the grief. But the other was right along, willingly. Right across from him.

Steve stepped forward, stooped down. "Your shoe's untied," he explained, looping the laces around his fingers. A slight chuckle fell from above, but this was strictly business. "This old park's a mess," he said, knotting a bow. "An' the more times you trip, the longer you'll be here. An' I'm tryna get rid of you, 'member?"

"'Course I do." Bucky clutched the little guy's bone-of-a-bicep and hauled him up. "Thanks," he said, nodding at his shoes. "Do you shine, too? 'Cause they sure could use it."

Steve clouted Bucky's forearm.

And they were close, frozen, for a second. Not in the bronze glow of the bar, nor the fuzzy glint of the streets, but the raw fog of another endless night. And for the first time, the little guy did look like a stranger. His eyelashes were probably longer than any beard he'd ever grow, and they were painstakingly graceful, dipping into the deep blues below. He wasn't tired. He was beat. Lips were pinker than any red Bucky had ever seen, and cracked like the weed-ridden court. Didn't look like he'd been eating. Didn't look like he'd been happy in an outlandishly long time. He was _beat_.

And yet, he barged off in the direction they had come. Like a fucking firecracker.

Bucky was not an incredibly patient man, not usually. But he was not tiring from chasing the little guy around the dankest places of the borough. Not at all.

"What about your job?" got asked for the umpteenth time, as they passed through the gap in the fence. "What if they really fire you?"

"Oh, I can go back to the docks. Or another bar. Or, I've heard that garage on Empire Avenue is hiring. Then again," Bucky rambled, drawing a flap of chain-link like a curtain, so Steve's ratty coat wouldn't get snagged. "I've heard there'll be fireworks at Coney Island tomorrow evening, too."

"What for?" Steve asked, stepping up to a curb.

"Election day. Everyone's bettin' on Roosevelt to win by another landslide, so. The celebration's already been set. World's full of fortune tellin' bastards, you know."

"You like fireworks?"

"They're alright."

"They're my favorite color."

Well. Clearly the little guy was still rather wasted. Bucky snorted. "That so?"

Steve just nodded, gazing off at nothing. "Used to watch 'em off that roof," he pointed. Some boxy building in the first layer of the jagged skyline. "With my ma. On my birthday."

"What," Bucky snorted again. "Are you some sorta circus freak?"

Steve shot his bright blue daggers. He had perfect aim with those. "S'cuse me --?"

Bucky put his hands up. "You know, that guy." It wasn't a surrender, just a showcase of the lack of weapons up his sleeves. "The circus guy. Barnum, or Bailey. Can't remember which one," he said. "But one of 'em was born on the fourth of July."

"Okay." Steve wasn't convinced, or particularly concerned either way, but, "Yeah. So was I."

They made it back to the complex, but dodged the door. Meandered down its alley instead, where they stood for awhile, under a fire escape. Just breathing, blinking. Existing. Finally, Steve asked,

"D'you like the circus?"

"Never been." Bucky's voice was smooth, then it spiked, once Steve's hollow face scrunched. "What? I know when Pluto was discovered, too. But I've never been there, either."

"Well 'course you haven'," Steve chastised. "Nobody's ever goin' to space. Everybody goes to the circus, though."

Bucky shrugged. "You like it?"

Steve shrugged. "I like the fireworks at the end."

Silence made its final round. Beneath a stairwell dripping sludge on the side of a forgotten street, two Brooklyn boys turned their faces to a sky full of soil instead of stars, honking horns and stillborn dreams and it looked a lot like the end of the line. There in a lost corner of The City That Never Sleeps.

"Time to call it a night, don't you think?"

"I don' even know what time it is."

"Ya know," Bucky said. "You never know, not really. Five years can go by where nothing happens. Then suddenly, in one hour, five years can happen. Read that on a bathroom stall once." He sighed, let the cold sting his lungs more than a smoke ever could. "But I know it's true 'cause I think this has been one of those hours."

Steve flushed a bit, then nodded, but his head didn't bob back up, he kept it low. He'd kept everything together, until tonight. Hadn't told an ear on the earth that his mother was gone. An elder from Saint Augustine's had been there that last day, chanting psalms by the deathbed of a woman half her age. _God works in mysterious ways,_ they say. And she'd made the calls, Sister Maris Stella was her name, arranged the funeral, as scant as it was, and Steve hadn't made a sound through it all.

The sea kept crashing, the sun kept spilling, and Steve kept it together for a week.  _Life's not fair_ , they say.

At least it's the home stretch when rent gets spent on booze.

"Hey, buddy," Bucky whispered, choppy as the bay that was out there, somewhere. " _Hey._ " Salty as the tears shorting out those electric blues. A hand patted a bony shoulder. A little guy collapsed into a bigger one. A solace was sought, shared, if only for a spell. Grief was a lonely place and, "You've had enough."

...

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic ever. I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading :)


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